


Sometimes, I still Need You

by blacktofade



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktofade/pseuds/blacktofade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond deals with the bleed effect and Shaun is an asshole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes, I still Need You

Shaun is an asshole. Desmond knows this from one too many long days spent with him. Shaun's the kind of guy to leave cupboard doors wide open for no reason, to never wash the hair from the sink after shaving, to put empty cartons of milk back in the fridge; the kind of guy to get right under Desmond's skin without him realising.

There's really nothing wrong with Shaun per se, well, apart from his complete inability to interact with others like any normal human being. Shaun's just the guy who acts like an asshole, but actually _is_ one for completely different reasons, of which he’s oblivious. This annoys Desmond most of all.

*

“Morning, ladies,” Shaun says as he enters the room, which would be polite and friendly if not for the fact that he’s looking right at Desmond when he says it.

 _Asshole_.

It makes Desmond feel a little better about having stolen Shaun’s chair and left him an empty desk with nowhere to sit. Shaun notices almost immediately.

“Give me my chair back, Miles. Let the grownups do their jobs.”

Desmond stands and rolls the chair towards him, hoping that he’s pushed with enough force that it’ll slam into Shaun’s shins and break them painfully. Instead, Shaun stops it casually with his foot, spins it, and sits in a move that’s far more graceful than Desmond will give credit to. With a few clicks, Shaun has his computer booted up and ready for the day.

Desmond resigns himself to the Animus, slipping into the chair without even needing to be told.  
“You ready, Des?” Lucy asks, placing a hand on his shoulder briefly as she passes by him.

“As I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Shaun snorts from the other side of the room.

“What?”

“You got any more cliché lines you’d like to use before we start?”

Desmond begins a retort, but finds himself fading off when he’s alone in the Animus loading screen.

“Goddamnit, Shaun,” he complains to the faintly swirling mist.

*

His head hurts. It feels as though his brain is a thousand times too big for his skull and at any second it’s going to crack it open and pop out like a dancer from a cake. Except with less pizzazz. And more blood.

He’s sat at the kitchen table, forehead resting on its cool wooden surface, arms splayed every-which-way either side of his head. Scenes from inside the Animus replay in his mind, all the jumping and climbing and running; it makes him feel motion sick despite not actually moving. It’s like trying to stop the room from spinning after a hard night of drinking: pretty much impossible.

It’s then that Shaun intrudes, talking far too loudly and banging on the table with an open palm as he passes. Desmond feels like he’s going to puke. He digs his fingernails into the glossy finish and tries his best to keep the contents of his stomach inside him. Shaun, apparently realising Desmond’s trying valiantly to ignore him, stops talking. Desmond can feel the prickle of Shaun’s stare against the back of his head and when he’s sure he’s not going to spew everything everywhere, he lifts his face and tilts it to look Shaun in the eyes.

“Jesus,” Shaun says, his surprising sounding more than a little genuine, “what’s wrong with you?”

Desmond makes half a noise in the back of his throat and mumbles, “head hurts,” before carefully lowering his cheek to the table and closing his eyes.

“You should remember to limber up before you start thinking. We all know how delicate your mind is.”

“Fuck off,” he mutters, “it’s that stupid Animus.”

Shaun doesn’t reply, there’s just the faint clattering of him moving around, opening (and actually _closing_ ) cupboards. He imagines the peace and quiet he’ll have when Shaun leaves after making his cup of tea – which is obviously what he’s doing as he hasn’t had one in all of three minutes. But then the bubbling of the coffee maker starts and Desmond’s actually confused enough to lift his head again. Shaun doesn’t like coffee. Even with the room swaying around him, he watches as Shaun grabs a mug and starts adding creamer in an imitation of how Desmond usually makes his own coffee in the morning.

Shaun sets the drink in front of him and stands with his hands on his hips watching him. Desmond’s too shocked to move at first, but the vapour drifting towards him smells like the perfect solution to his problem and his stomach seems to want to begin negotiations. He drags the mug towards himself with a heavy hand and carefully lifts it to his mouth.

Coffee apparently isn’t Shaun’s forte; in fact it’s probably the one thing in his life he should never try again. Grains of coffee get stuck in his teeth and even with the creamer it’s strong enough that it’ll probably keep him awake for a year or so. However, he doesn’t say any of this out loud. Instead, he nods gently and hums quiet thanks, because despite how bad it tastes, it does in fact make him feel a lot less unwell, like a Denny’s breakfast to start a morning after.

He leans on his elbows and slowly sips at it, until finally Shaun moves away, leans against the countertop, and nonchalantly flicks the kettle on.

That's about the time Desmond realises that maybe, just perhaps, Shaun's just an asshole on the outside. That maybe Shaun actually isn't the Devil incarnate.

Shaun makes his tea and leaves, patting him roughly on the shoulder as he goes, jarring his thoughts and stomach, making him feel queasy once again.

Maybe not Satan himself, just his second in command.

*

Lucy laughs, covering her mouth with a hand as Desmond moves towards her, carrying another mixed drink for her to try.

“Des, that’s enough,” she hiccoughs, but takes it anyway.

He smiles as he watches her drink, feeling pleasantly buzzed, worry about everything still flitting about in the back of his mind, but content for the moment.

“About time you put your bartending skills to use,” she says as she flops against the kitchen table, Desmond only just able to rescue her half-full glass. He laughs easily and sets it out of her reach. He brushes the hair out of her face and smiles sadly at her relaxed expression. It’s not often he sees it these days.

“C’mon,” he says, standing and moving to slip an arm around her. “Bedtime.”

She complains about being able to walk by herself, but doesn’t try to break out of his grip, leaning against him as he leads her towards her room. She stumbles inside, muttering a small “thanks, des,” before shutting the door on him. He can’t help but laugh at her abruptness, but doesn’t take it personally as he finds his way back to the kitchen.

He pours himself one last drink, tossing it back casually, before beginning to tidy up.

“Don’t I get a drink?”

He turns to find Shaun loitering in the doorway, an empty shot glass already in his grasp. He throws it to Desmond, who catches it in one hand as he pulls the bottle of alcohol back towards him. He won’t lie; he hopes Shaun’s mildly impressed with his multitasking. He wasn’t the second best bartender in his city for nothing.

He pours them both a shot of vodka and sets them down on the kitchen table. He downs his own, relishing in the burn of his throat as it moves warmly inside him, and waits for Shaun. Shaun steps forwards, taking his drink and swallowing it one, eyes never leaving Desmond’s face. He grimaces as he slides the glass back to Desmond.

“What cheap old stuff is that?”

“All we’ve got, apparently.”

“Disgusting.”

Desmond has to agree, but he’s pretty sure the alcohol’s there to boost morale not win the best vodka award.

“Knew you’d complain, s’why I didn’t offer you one in the first place.”

Shaun lets out a snort of laughter.

“At least you’re learning. C’mon, pour me another.”

Desmond does as he’s told, but as he passes the drink, Shaun grabs his wrist and halts him.  
“You first,” he says, even as Desmond shakes his head.

“No thanks, I’m done for the night.”

“Ah, I see; we’ve got ourselves a lightweight?”

Desmond’s proud that he doesn’t even blink at the insult.

“I could drink you under this table, Hastings.”

“Oh well, pardon me then.”

Shaun grabs the shot and quickly drinks it, slamming the glass back down and letting it spin back towards Desmond, who stops it with one finger. He screws the cap back on the vodka and slides everything towards Shaun.

“Feel free to drink yourself into a coma if you want, just don’t be too loud, I’m going to bed.”

As he passes, Shaun hooks a finger into a belt loop on his pants and stills him. Desmond’s stomach jumps uncomfortably as he stares down at Shaun in surprise, trying his hardest not to let it show on his face.

“Let the bed bugs bite,” is all he says as he lets Desmond go and reaches for the alcohol.

*

Desmond gets stuck with Shaun on the next food run. And to make it even better it starts to rain as soon as they pull out of the garage.

Shaun insists on driving, something about being in control and not dying in a fiery metallic mass, but Desmond’s okay with that, happy to just sit in the passenger seat, his feet on the dash (Shaun complains loudly, but it doesn’t stop him from doing it). He flips idly through the radio stations, never stopping on one long enough to hear more than a few words of a song. He’s never been a fan of radios; too many commercials, mostly for stuff he doesn’t need, like a car. Obviously.

In the end, Shaun bats his hand away and it stays stuck on a channel with nothing but static. Shaun switches it off and the pattering of rain and noise of the windscreen wipers fills the car instead.

That’s just the beginning of it.

*

Desmond tugs an emergency umbrella from the backseat and puts it up as soon as he’s out of the car; he hears Shaun cursing from the other side of the vehicle. The cold quickly seeps through his thin shirt, his hoodie having disappeared without a trace (he put it somewhere and has yet to find it again), but he’s dry and he thinks that’s the main thing.

A few more minutes of Shaun complaining and he finally emerges, zipping up the sweatshirt Desmond had just been thinking of. Hood up, hands deep in the pocket, Shaun ignores his protests as he heads to the store’s entranceway.

“That’s mine,” he argues once they’re inside.

“Did your mother sew your name into it?” Shaun replies snidely. “It was shoved under the backseat. As far as I see it,that makes it fairgame.”

“If you stretch it out, you’re buying me a new one.”

“You’ve stretched it out as far as it’ll go already, Miles, so I don’t think that’s likely.”

Desmond makes sure to casually ram the cart into Shaun’s heel.

*

Shaun annoys Desmond to his wits end within the first five minutes. Shaun goes against everything, and when he says everything, he _means_ everything.

“Eggs,” Desmond states, reading off their lists as he picks up a container and sets it in the cart. Shaun takes them back out again and replaces them with ones with a label that says _organic_ and Desmond stares daggers at him.

“What?” Shaun says as though he has no idea what he’s done wrong. “I don’t need weird hormones in my breakfast, thanks.”

Desmond continues pushing the cart, stopping by the refrigerators.

“Milk,” he says, grabbing a carton of whole and dropping it in.

Shaun takes it out and gets 2% instead.

“This is why you’re fat.”

“This is why your face is a funny shape because you’ve been punched so many times from being such a douchebag!”

Shaun ignores him.

“What’s next on the list?”

Desmond mutters under his breath but continues on.

“Bread,” he says with the horrible feeling that this could be the longest shopping trip of all time.

*

They get even wetter on the way out. Shaun loads the trunk before Desmond runs to take the cart back, steering awkwardly with one hand as he holds the yellow umbrella above him with the other.

It’s predictable, but Shaun’s inside the running car with all the doors locked, waiting smugly for Desmond’s return.

“Open the door, asshole,” Desmond says, rapping his knuckles on the window.

Shaun cups a hand around his ear, miming that he can’t hear.

Desmond thumps the window a clenched fist instead, making the glass shake in its frame. Inside the car, Shaun frowns and finally unlocks the doors.

“No need to try to break the window, idiot.”

Desmond makes sure to spray Shaun with water as he returns the dripping umbrella to the backseat, and it takes at least ten minutes for Shaun to wipe his glasses, quit complaining, and back out of the parking space.

*

Shaun’s reasoning is that since they’ve done the shopping, it’s Lucy and Rebecca’s job to bring everything in and unpack. Desmond begins to complain, but Shaun holds a finger up to silence him.

“Just get the umbrella; don’t let it fester in the car.”

Desmond grabs it, wondering what his chances of survival are if he knocks the end of it into Shaun’s head, then decides it’s not worth it and leaves, slamming the door behind him instead.

The door’s open, but the lights are off and Desmond wonders if the other two are in the back watching a movie. He flips the light switch and holds the door for Shaun, who all but ignores him. Desmond grabs him by the back of the sweatshirt – which he seems to be wearing more as a cape than anything else – and tugs.

Shaun stumbles one step back and turns to glare.

“Give me my stuff back,” Desmond says, raising his arms to slip the hood from Shaun’s head, however, Shaun isn’t looking at him anymore.

Instead, he’s staring at the gap between Desmond’s shirt and jeans where the material rides up as he reaches for his hoodie. Desmond knows this because his gaze flicks towards Shaun’s hand which seems to appear out of nowhere and inches slowly towards the bare skin. Even though he’s watching it, he still jumps when it slides warmly against his stomach. A thumb brushes faintly down the line of hair leading from his navel and his muscles twitch under the skin.

“Wha --?” he begins, gently pushing it away, letting his shirt fall back into place.

Shaun looks up, his expression unreadable. Desmond takes a step away, his back bumping into the wall behind, and wonders if he can use the wet umbrella to protect himself because he’s sure Shaun’s about to do something. Before he can move, Shaun’s hands land upon his shoulders, holding him in place as he shifts forwards and presses his lips against Desmond’s own.

Desmond will admit he’s not the brightest bulb in the box, but he likes to think he could have at least seen this coming. Instead it’s like being blindsided by a freight train. And then run over by each of its hundred carriages.

He drops the umbrella, letting it fall with a wet swish against the wooden floor and Shaun kicks it gently away, stepping into the open space and pressing closer along the length of Desmond’s body. For the life of him, he can’t figure out _why_. Why Shaun has chosen him, why Shaun’s running his tongue along his bottom lip, why Shaun’s hand’s are sliding down the sides of his thighs. He pushes at Shaun’s chest trying to get him to step back, tensing up under Shaun’s wandering fingers.

Shaun seems to finally understand there’s something wrong as he pulls away and moves a foot or two backwards.

“You hate me,” is about all Desmond can manage.

“You _annoy_ me.”

“What if _I_ hate _you_?”

“You don’t.”

Desmond can’t tell if he’s right or not; he can’t even put two and two together, let alone sort through a history of interactions and analyse the deeper psychological meanings behind them.

“This is a bad idea,” he says instead, because he’s sure that’s how any sane, normal person would respond at a time like this.

“It’s a _kiss_ , Miles, not a _marriage proposal_.”

Shaun pauses, watching him with furrowed brows, before slowly placing a hand back on Desmond’s hip, tilting his head, and stepping forwards. He leaves his mouth mere inches from Desmond’s and seems to wait for Desmond to make the final move.

It’s not that he’s against it per se, just highly confused by everything that’s happened within the past five minutes. To be honest, if dealing with the question of whether or not he wants to kiss Shaun, he’d be more worried about whether or not Shaun would punch him after to ever start thinking about the bits in between.

So instead, he _doesn’t_ worry. He places a hand over the one Shaun has on his hip, curls his fingers around the wrist of Shaun’s other arm, just to be sure, then brings their mouths together.

It’s surprisingly normal, like any other kiss he’s had before, just it’s with _Shaun_.

He can’t get the image out of his mind of Shaun smirking and calling _checkmate_ as Desmond lets his mouth fall open and places a hand on Shaun’s upper arm, no longer caring about Shaun’s fists. A warm tongue slides between his lips, running along the edge of his teeth before brushing against his own.

It feels strange to curl his fingers into his own hoodie to pull Shaun closer, but he does it anyway, letting Shaun smile and huff a laugh into his slackened mouth. Shaun’s hands slip up the back of his shirt, knead against soft skin then further up to press into hardened muscle that’s full of knots and aches, ironically, which Shaun’s put there himself.

“Shaun? Desmond?” comes Lucy’s voice and it’s like a bucket of rainwater over him.

“Shit,” he says, quickly breaking the kiss.

He slips out of Shaun’s grasp and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn’t say anything and Shaun doesn’t call him back, not even to return his sweatshirt.

*

He finds his hoodie washed and folded on the end of his bed two days later.

He definitely doesn’t press it to his face to see if he can still smell Shaun through the laundry detergent.

(It smells of nothing but Downy.)

*

It’s been happening more often; when he lets his guard down, he suddenly finds himself stuck within the Animus without actually being _inside_ it. At first it’s small, like a blink and everything disappears for just a second, then it’s back to normal. He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t know there’s something there to tell about. But then it becomes minutes and hours, and he slowly loses his sense of time.

He’ll walk to the kitchen for a glass of water at noon and find himself crouched beside his bed an hour later, hood up and a butter knife in his hand, which funnily enough is reminiscent of the morning after a party he once went to in college. In all honesty though, he won’t lie, it scares him. He’s afraid he’ll hurt Lucy or Rebecca and not know it until he snaps out of the trance, so he ropes Shaun in to help. Not the best idea he’s ever had, but it’s the _only_ one he has and it’s worth a shot.

*

Shaun isn’t pleased, Desmond can tell from the way he yells and points his fingers at him.

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner? All you need is a break, but I guess that’s too much to ask. You want to keep being the hero?”

“I’m doing this for you guys, I never wanted to start this shit! I guess it’s a double standard between you and Abstergo, huh? One’s force, the other’s with love?”

Desmond’s pretty sure he’s about ten seconds away from being punched. He holds his hands out in front of him in surrender.

“Look, I just want it to stop – ” and it’s then that his memory decides to take over and it’s all a bit of a blur after that.

*

“Miles!” he hears through the haze as everything flickers. “Miles, I know you can hear me. Get your arse back here.”

He knows that voice, but can’t quite place it. But then like a punch in the face, the bleed disappears with a _pop_ and leaves him sprawled on his back on the floor, chest heaving, jaw throbbing. Shaun’s standing over him rubbing at his hand as he flexes his fingers.

Maybe it really was a punch.

*

He’s prescribed two weeks out of the Animus, which sets them back in their work, but Desmond thinks he can get away with it since it’s better than him being completely unusable. Shaun of course makes his opinion known, calling Desmond a few choice names, most of them swears and a few that Desmond’s pretty sure are made up.

He spends the first week alone in his room, only leaving for necessities. The second week begins on a different level.

*

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”

He groggily opens his eyes to find Shaun standing in the doorway looking far too awake for – he looks over at his bedside clock – seven in the morning.

“Wha–?”

“Time for training.”

Desmond pulls the covers over his head.

“Miles,” Shaun says loudly, sounding much closer than before. Desmond tugs the comforter back down and blinks in shock when he suddenly finds Shaun standing right next to him.

“C’mon, up.” He folds his arms and looks as though he won’t move again until Desmond is up and dressed.

With a sigh, Desmond rolls over and gets out the opposite side of his bed, forgetful of his state of undress until it’s too late. He’s not ashamed of his body, but he’s just not in the habit of walking around nude in front of people. He quickly grabs clean boxer-briefs from his dresser and tugs them up before finding a pair of sweats and pulling them on too.

“Chuck me that shirt,” he says to Shaun who picks it up, scrunches it into a ball, and tosses it towards him.

He slips it on before finding his shoes and tightly tying them.

“What training do I need to work on?” he asks as he collects his iPod and sweatshirt.

“Running,” is all Shaun says as he points in the direction of outside then leaves. “And keep your head down. If you get caught, we’re not coming to save you.”

Desmond grabs a water from the fridge and heads outside, tugging his hood up as he slips out the garage door into the chill morning air, his breath fogging in front of his face. He stretches his legs carefully before slipping his earbuds in and setting off at an easy pace, jogging the same route he's done a hundred times before.

*

After four miles of running, he finally stumbles back into the house, aching legs carrying him to the kitchen where he refills his water bottle and grabs an apple from the fruit bowl. Shaun's there within seconds.

"Why are you back already? Get back out there."

“I just ran four miles,” he wheezes, his breath still not having been caught.

“Then run _another_ four.”

Desmond glares at him the whole time he slowly eats the apple, but when he's finished he throws the core away, tops his bottle up and sets out again.

*

His next return is even more ungraceful. He feels half dead. His knees hurt, his lungs burn, and he’s sure his heels are covered in blisters. He showers away the sweat and grime and feels a little more human after. With a towel slung carelessly around his hips, he heads back to his room to dress. Shaun sitting on the corner of his desk is the last thing he expects to find.

“How does it feel?” he asks and Desmond pauses.

“My body? Sore mainly. My feet feel like they’re about to –”

“Your _head_ , Miles,” Shaun corrects in a condescending tone.

He hasn’t really thought about it, to tell the truth, but now that he does, he realises it feels strangely calm and clear.

“It’s fine; more than fine actually.”

“No bleeding effect?”

“Nothing.”

He looks at Shaun for a moment, watching the small smirk appear on his face.

“Right, well then, that’s my job done.”

“What, that’s it?” Desmond asks, confused.

“Pretty much. Run a couple miles every day and see how that works out for you.”

Shaun stands up and moves to the door, apparently finished with what he has to say. He pauses just before he leaves, leaning on the doorframe.

“Oh, and Miles?”

Desmond looks up from where he’s tugging his underwear on.

“Yeah?”

“Nice arse.”

*

Desmond can’t sleep. He doesn’t usually have trouble, normally too exhausted from his time in the Animus to do more than flop into bed and unconsciousness, but now there’s just _nothing_. After twenty minutes of tossing and turning and staring at the clock, he finally throws the covers back and gets out of bed. He pulls on some baggy sweats and leaves scratching his fingers through his hair.

Making his way down the hallway – the space unusually dark and quiet – he listens to his bare feet quietly padding against the cool floor. Without bothering with the kitchen light, he moves along a memorised path towards the stack of clean glasses by the sink, carefully taking one and walking towards the fridge. Opening it floods the room in orange light and he blinks against it as he grabs the jug of filtered water and pours himself some. He puts it back and nudges the fridge shut again with his hip.

He takes a few long swallows before setting the glass down on the countertop and breathing deeply.

“Jesus,” he says, spinning around as a floorboard creaks from across the room.

“Close enough,” Shaun replies pulling out a chair and falling into it. Looks as though he hasn’t been the only one having trouble sleeping. “What time is it?”

Desmond glances at the microwave that’s just out of Shaun’s sight.

“Two-thirty.”

Shaun sighs and Desmond watches the way his chest rises and falls under his thin t-shirt.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about Shaun lately. If anything, like the bleed effect, it had been growing worse. A few mornings ago, he’d found himself in the shower, completely hard, and at war with himself over whether or not to deal with it. In the end, he’d turned the temperature to beyond freezing and spent the rest of the day completely frustrated.

“Shaun,” he starts before he loses his nerve.

“Miles.”

“You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

Desmond rests his head in his hands and sighs in irritation. This is what’s wrong with the situation; Shaun makes his life a living hell and he’s pretty sure (or at least hopeful) that he does the same in return. Nothing will ever get anywhere because Shaun will talk in circles with his stupid-ass accent and Desmond will end up killing him before anything comes to fruition. But then he glances back up and Shaun’s watching him.

“C’mere,” he says eventually and Desmond goes before he can think too much about it.

Shaun shifts his chair back and sets his legs further apart. Desmond has no idea what they’re doing, but he finds himself stepping between them and leaning over him, letting Shaun slide his hand around the back of his head and guide him further down. With one hand on Shaun’s shoulder and the other on his thigh, he finds they’re once again kissing.

It’s slower than before, gentle and open-mouthed as Shaun’s thumb traces his jaw. He relaxes into it, feeling surprisingly okay with Shaun running a hand down his bare side, dancing his fingers across the muscles of his stomach. Desmond lets out a quiet groan and rubs his thumb along the inside of Shaun’s thigh; Shaun bites his bottom lip and tugs just hard enough for it to pinch.

Desmond draws away and runs his tongue over the sore patch of skin. It’s only a second before he pushes their mouths back together, rougher this time, full of the promise of quick release and Shaun seems to be okay with that.

Shaun tugs his hip and Desmond can’t move anywhere but forward, so he carefully lifts his legs over each of Shaun’s own and falls straight into Shaun’s lap with a softly exhaled, “ _fuck_.”

Shaun hums into his mouth, even more so when Desmond’s hands wander up inside his loose-fitting shirt. He digs his fingertips into the soft flesh of Shaun’s stomach and grinds down, feeling Shaun hot and hard under his pyjama pants.

“Jesus,” Shaun says, pulling away and sounding more than a little breathless.

“Close enough,” Desmond mocks, completely unready for the hand Shaun slips into his sweats in response. His breath catches as strong fingers wrap around his cock and begin stroking him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pants, dropping his head to Shaun’s shoulder, unable to stop himself from licking and nipping at the length of neck next to his face.

Shaun rubs his thumb over the head of Desmond’s erection and Desmond bucks upwards, needing more. The movement grinds him down against Shaun’s own cock, drawing a huffed laugh from the man; he does it again, setting up a steady rhythm.

It feels ridiculously good, better than he could have imagined – probably because of his recent lack of sex, but that’s beside the point. He rolls his hips, urging Shaun to stroke him faster, but Shaun just continues at a slow, even pace, driving him slowly insane – as per usual, at least nothing’s changed.

He shifts back slightly on Shaun’s legs, just far enough that he’s no longer brushing against Shaun’s erection and Shaun immediately stops touching him. He moans at the loss, but continues with his plan, sliding his hands to Shaun’s hips and dragging his pants and underwear down just enough that his cock springs free. He does the same for himself and then shifts forwards again, licking his palm and taking them both into hand.

It feels good, better than good. Shaun’s cock twitching against his own sends him half mad and he can’t stop dragging his lips over Shaun’s own long enough to catch his breath. He winds his fingers into Shaun’s short hair and tilts his head back as he kisses over his chin and down to his Adam’s apple. It bobs under his mouth as Shaun swallows and Desmond finds himself smiling against the skin.

This hadn’t been what he’d been looking for when he’d come to the kitchen, but he’s not going to complain, not when he’s rutting up against Shaun’s body, twisting his wrist in such a way that Shaun lets out half-muffled moans, ones he’s slowly becoming addicted to. He quickens his pace, feeling the pleasure twist and grow inside him, hoping to God that Shaun’s close too because he knows he won’t be able to hold out much longer and he’d rather not be mocked for his stamina, or lack thereof.

One of Shaun’s hands drifts down to his thigh, pushing against it, spreading Desmond’s legs just the slightest. He thinks nothing of it as he brings his palm up and licks it again before continuing on with the mixed taste of himself and Shaun on his tongue, but then Shaun tilts his own leg just so and Desmond just about comes right then and there. It puts pressure just behind his balls, lifting and dragging them against the soft material of Shaun’s pants.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes out, slowing his hand slightly.

“No,” Shaun orders, grabbing Desmond’s wrist and making it move faster again. “Just let go.”  
And fuck if he doesn’t; it feels like he’s been punched in the gut, all the breath’s knocked out of him and he barely makes a sound as he comes.

The sticky mess coats his hand, slicks it enough that he can really being to tug Shaun’s cock with long, firm strokes, fingers aching with every squeeze he gives the head. Without thinking his drops his head to Shaun’s shoulder and bites down through the cotton of his shirt.

Shaun grunts and twitches under him, and it takes Desmond by surprise as he comes just seconds later, the warmness splashing onto Desmond’s bare stomach. He jerks Shaun through the pleasure until Shaun stills his hand with his own and sighs heavily.

“I can’t – ” Shaun says around an exhale.

“I know,” Desmond replies, mouthing up the side of Shaun’s neck.

“No,” he continues, sending vibrations under Desmond’s lips, “I can’t feel my legs; you’re heavy as hell.”

Desmond sits up.

“You’re such an asshole, you know that?”

“That obviously hasn’t stopped you though, has it?” He grins like the cat that got the cream and Desmond has nothing left to say. He stands, pulling his clothes back into place with his clean hand, while he wipes the dirty one off on Shaun’s shirt, removing part of the smirk off his smug face. Without uttering a word, he grabs the drink that he only just remembers about and moves towards the door.

Shaun pats him on the ass as he passes.

“Nighty night, Miles. Sweet dreams.”

*

Desmond doesn't have a bleed for the rest of the week after putting Shaun's unexpected and rather militaristic advice to use. He feels well enough to jump right back into the saddle as it were and they start back up again on Monday morning, everyone looking a whole lot happier. (Except for Shaun, but nothing changes there.)

It isn't until he leaves the animus that evening that he realises his mistake. The bleed hits and it hits _hard_.

He blanks out on the way to the kitchen, even as he hears Lucy laughing and chatting with Rebecca one thin wall away.

When he comes back to himself, he finds his hands tied in front of him with a tie -- more specifically, _Shaun’s_ tie -- and Shaun himself crouched beside him, his nose bleeding, blood sliding over his lips and down his chin in a thick red line.

"Oh god," is the first thing that tumbles from his mouth.

"That's about right," Shaun replies, beginning to undo the heavy duty knots around Desmond's wrists. "You owe me a new tie, Miles."

"A new face too?"

Shaun wipes at his still dripping nose with the back of his hand. "Yeah, just about.”

“What happened?”

He sits up and rubs at his sore wrists only just noticing Lucy and Rebecca standing in the corner, Rebecca holding an icepack against her right eye. His stomach drops and a thousand apologies jam in his throat.

“Did I do that?” he asks with growing dread.

“It wasn’t you,” she says, though after a pause adds, “well, technically it was _your_ fist, but it was the bleed that hit me. Don’t worry, though, I got you back.”

It’s then that his tongue finds the split in his lip, dabbing it and tasting blood.

“Fuck.”

“Well,” Shaun starts, standing and leaving Desmond to sit on the floor, “you decided that Rebecca was a Templar – even started yelling at her in Italian – so I guess it could have been a lot worse.”

Lucy tosses Shaun a cloth and he wipes at the blood on his face.

“Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, we know, Miles; go lie down before you hurt anyone else.”

He doesn’t protest; it’s the least he can do.

*

He feels like shit, complete and utter shit and he’s not exactly surprised. For a brief moment he thinks about doing something rash, like slipping out the backdoor and leaving them all in peace; like smashing everything in his room for the sake of a few minutes of calm afterwards. Instead, he flops backwards onto his bed, arms and legs splayed haphazardly, and sighs.

The door clicks open then shut a few minutes later and he smells Shaun’s aftershave before he can even step into sight.

“I’m busy,” he says, hoping he’ll go away.

“Doing what exactly? Wallowing in self-pity?”

Desmond sits up. The first thing he sees is Shaun’s red nose and guilt washes over him.

“What do you want?”

“I’m here to see if you’re okay.”

“Pull the other one,” Desmond says, not believing him in the slightest.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he replies with a shrug, “I don’t really care.” He sits heavily next to Desmond on the end of the bed and Desmond can’t figure out what’s a lie and what’s the truth anymore.

“Sorry about your nose,” he says instead, looking down at his hands which are clasped in his lap.

“I’ll get over it.”

“How’s Rebecca?”

“She’ll get over it.”

“Shaun, that’s not the point,” he argues, glancing across at him. “What if next time’s worse?”

“Then we’ll deal with it when it happens. You can’t control this, Desmond, none of us can, so the sooner you realise it, the quicker we can resume to normal and carry on with what we need to do.”

“Easy for you to say since you aren’t the one who can’t tell the difference between the twenty-first and fifteenth century. You just sit at your computer with your hands clean, watching me do the dirty work.”

“I don’t watch you,” Shaun complains, as though that’s the biggest issue Desmond has.

“You’re ridiculous!”

That’s the thing about Shaun; everything else changes, but he never does. He’s the same asshole he always has been. Really, that’s all Desmond needs: a constant. As crazy and absurd as it may sound, Shaun might be the key to his bleeds. He just needs an anchor to the now.

Without thinking Desmond twists his fingers into the collar of Shaun’s sweater and pulls him forwards, roughly pressing their mouths together. It’s not his greatest moment, as he manages to knock Shaun’s nose, momentarily forgetting about it, and Shaun ends up pushing him away and holding a hand over it, his eyes watering.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he moans, his pain almost palpable to Desmond. When he pulls his hand away there’s no blood, but Desmond still feels incredibly guilty.

“Sorry, I forgot.”

Shaun sighs in frustration and grabs Desmond by the chin.

“If you’re going to do it, do it like this,” he says, tilting Desmond’s face and dipping down to kiss him. Desmond stays in place, tension running up his spine as he keeps all in his limbs in check. Eventually, Shaun lets him go, just continues kissing him, and slides his hands up Desmond’s thighs; Desmond doesn’t even try to stop him. His thumbs press into the creases of Desmond’s pants, rubbing through the denim against the skin where Desmond’s legs meet his body.

Desmond exhales into Shaun’s open mouth and Shaun glances at him from behind his glasses. He has no idea what he’s thinking, so he takes his chances, lying back and tugging Shaun towards him. There’s a moment of hesitation before Shaun shifts, swinging a leg over Desmond’s waist and sitting on the tops of his thighs, but then he’s right back kissing Desmond with bruising force. Desmond feels himself sink further into the bed with Shaun’s added weight, but it stops him from thinking, as the only thing he can focus on is Shaun and how close he is and how his knuckles drag against his bare side where his clothes have ridden up.

He’s got a pretty good idea of where this is heading and he won’t complain. He just needs a few moments to forget about everything beyond the door at the far end of the room.

He lifts his hands to Shaun’s sides, slowly brushing them down the length of his body before hooking them behind Shaun’s thighs, right below his ass, and holding him still. He feels Shaun pressing backwards slightly into them and Desmond can’t help but squeeze a little. Shaun grunts and bats them away, mumbling something against his lips that Desmond can’t quite catch.

Desmond instead slips his hands down to the fastening of Shaun’s slacks, pressing his fingertips just under the waistband. Shaun doesn’t seem to argue against it, so he flicks it open with his thumbs, drags the zipper with ease, then slides a hand inside to grasp a hold of Shaun’s cock. Shaun bucks into the pressure, gently rolling his hips and grinding into Desmond’s hand; he’s not hard, but Desmond can feel him twitching in interest through the material of his boxers.

Shaun does him a favour as he grabs the hem of his own sweater and tugs it up over his head before beginning to unbutton his shirt. Desmond watches, with rapt attention, running his free hand against Shaun’s warm skin as it comes into view. The shirt disappears over the side of the bed as Shaun bends at the waist and licks along Desmond’s jaw, biting at the lobe of his ear when he can reach it with his teeth.

“You want this?” he whispers and Desmond squeezes his cock a little more firmly.

“Yeah,” he breathes out and just like that Shaun pulls away completely, sliding off the bed and walking to the door, holding his pants up with one hand.

“Don’t move,” he says before he disappears, slamming the door as he leaves.

Desmond doesn’t really know what to do, but he’s pretty sure Shaun will come back. At least eighty-percent sure. Instead of thinking too hard about it, he unzips his hoodie and pulls it off before slipping out of his shirt and shimmying his pants and underwear down. Completely naked, he lies back, head on his pillow and he begins to stroke himself to full hardness. He’s just getting into it, picturing Shaun’s hand, in place of his own, wrapped around him, thumbing at the leaking head, when Shaun returns, his face tinged pink.

“Did you run?” he teases, letting himself go.

“No,” he says with more force than necessary before throwing stuff at him; a bottle of lube lands by his arm and a condom ends up on his stomach.

“Where’d you get these?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Threw them in the trolley when you went off in a strop looking for potatoes.”

“You had this planned then?”

“No,” Shaun says, “I was planning on some alone time, but I suppose this is just as good.”

Desmond takes the lube, opening it and slicking his fingers, while Shaun busies himself trying to strip the rest of his clothes off. He bends his knees, placing his feet flat on the bed as he reaches down and slips a finger into his own body. He’s not gentle with himself as he starts up a quick rhythm, pressing in a second finger before he’s truly ready, but he takes it and rolls his hips downwards.

Finally naked, Shaun moves to kneel at Desmond’s feet, his eyes darting from Desmond’s fingers to Desmond’s eyes and back again. He grabs a hold of Desmond’s hand, stilling it for just a moment, before he starts moving it himself, fucking Desmond with Desmond’s own fingers. After a while, he gently pushes in a third finger and Desmond’s pretty sure it’s just to be polite, or maybe just to torture him because he keeps pushing them straight against his prostate and the pleasure’s building up pretty quickly.

He finally pulls both of their hands away, leaving Desmond feeling strangely empty, but it doesn’t last long as Shaun quickly opens the condom and slides it over his own cock, using the leftover lube on Desmond’s hand to slick it up. Before Desmond knows it, he’s got a leg over Shaun’s shoulder, the other tightly wrapped around Shaun’s lower back.

He strokes himself as Shaun slides into his body, stretching him further than his fingers were able to. It’s been a while since he last had something inside him, but it still feels just as good as he remembers. Shaun starts off slow, his hips barely moving, but that’s not what Desmond’s looking for. He wants something hard and fast and maybe even a little bit rough. But for the moment, he lets his body get used to the feeling, lets Shaun slowly build the pace up until he’s sure they’re both a bit bored with the normality.

“C’mon,” he provokes, “you can do better than that.”

And that’s how he suddenly finds himself in a different position, completely flipped over, his face pressing down into the comforter, back arched and ass in the air as Shaun presses back into him immediately.

“Fuck,” he draws out, eyes falling shut as Shaun slams into him repeatedly.

“Better?” Shaun replies smugly and all Desmond can do is let out a knot of vowel sounds.

He knows he won’t last long, but when he tries to reach a hand down to stroke himself, Shaun knocks it away and stretches both his arms above his head, pinning them in place with one of his own hands.

This is what Desmond’s looking for: the Shaun that’s ready to pick a fight with Desmond at any moment. He relaxes under him, letting him take control as he accepts everything Shaun throws at him, like the way he changes the lengths of his thrusts, sometimes even pulling all the way out before pushing just the head of his cock back in and holding still while Desmond tries his best not to start begging.

Shaun stretches out over Desmond’s back, leaning heavily on him as he pushes in even deeper, rocking his hips and nudging his erection into Desmond’s prostate again and again.

“Think you can come just from this, Desmond?” he whispers into his ear, but Desmond doesn’t answer, mostly because he _can’t_ , his throat too clogged with unvoiced pleas. Instead he just pushes back against Shaun and lets out a low groan.

“I’ll take that as a _yes_ then.”

Desmond knows Shaun’s smirking without even seeing his face and he struggles in protest, but he can’t get the leverage to throw Shaun off him.

Shaun pushes on his spine, forcing him to arch his back more, changing the angle so that Shaun rubs straight over his prostate with every thrust. Desmond pushes his face into the bed, muffling the noises that he can’t seem to stop falling from his mouth, his fingers digging into the pillows.

Shaun’s free hand slides tantalisingly up and down his stomach, thumb tracing mere inches away from his cock.

“Stop,” he says quietly, hoping Shaun will hear him.

“Say it and mean it, Desmond, and I will.”

He knows he’s lost; he doesn’t even try to hold back as he already knows Shaun is right. He lets his body go slack, the only thing keeping him steady is the hand Shaun places on his hip. Desmond can feel his orgasm hovering just out of reach and he knows he just needs one final push to get there. The push manifests as Shaun running the very tip of his index finger up along the underside of Desmond’s cock

He comes harder than he has in a long time, moans trying to spill from his throat so quickly that they jam together and his mouth falls open in a silent cry instead. Shaun mouths at the back of his neck, pushing his nose into the dampness of Desmond’s hair. Shaun drags his hand back down Desmond’s stomach and he can feel the warm stickiness spread across his skin. He thinks about complaining to Shaun about making a mess, but he’s still thrusting steadily into his sensitive body and he can’t quite catch his breath.

He manages to break a wrist free from Shaun’s grasp and moves it down to the back of Shaun’s thigh, tugging him closer, deeper. Shaun bites the curve of his neck, soothing the skin after with quick flicks of his tongue. Desmond has no idea if he’s close to coming, even at the peak of pleasure, he doesn’t seem to let his guard down. He clenches around him, hoping to help him along because as much as he’s enjoying it, he’s feeling sore. Shaun’s fingers pinch as they grasp his upper arm, holding tightly as his thrusts speed up to the point where there’s no rhythm, just erratic movement.

Shaun’s breath hitches loudly above the sound of skin upon skin and Desmond finally knows he’s there.

“C’mon, Shaun,” he whispers. “Having trouble?”

As if to prove the point that, no, in fact he wasn’t having trouble, Shaun’s body tenses and he exhales hotly right into Desmond’s ear. His thrusts slow until he finally stops and slips out of Desmond’s tired body. Desmond slumps forward, not even caring when Shaun falls right on top of him.

“God, that was good,” he mumbles into his pillow.

“Didn’t know I was a God, but, yeah, I’ll admit that wasn’t bad.”

Desmond sighs, but doesn’t say anything. He’s heard the saying that the only constant in life is change, but Shaun sure as hell never seems to follow the rule. He’s an unmoveable rock, unstoppable force, whatever anyone wants to call it. Desmond’s got a word for it: asshole.


End file.
